


How Gladstone Came to Live at Baker Street

by dogpoet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-09
Updated: 2010-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:42:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogpoet/pseuds/dogpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home is where the dog is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Gladstone Came to Live at Baker Street

"His name is Gladstone," John said, introducing his new acquisition to Mrs Hudson in the foyer of 221B.

"He'll be just the thing to keep Sherlock from his moods when you're not home," Mrs Hudson exclaimed as she bent stiffly to have a closer look at the bulldog. "Have a pat, dear."

Gladstone grunted with pleasure. John loved dogs. He'd wanted one since before he'd joined the military. Dogs were loyal. They were excited to see you when you came home. They liked affection.

"It's all right, then?" John confirmed.

"But don't ask me to to take care of him when you two are gallivanting about. I'm not your housekeeper."

Gladstone pushed his nose into Mrs Hudson's leg, begging for more attention.

"He's house-trained, is he?"

John didn't know. "I'll see to it," he assured Mrs Hudson. "Thank you."

"No peeing on the rugs, dear," she said as John climbed the stairs with Gladstone lumbering behind him.

When John opened the door to their common rooms, he found Sherlock lying on the sofa, deep in thought, his eyes closed.

"What. Is that?" Sherlock opened his eyes and angled them towards John and the dog.

"His name is Gladstone." John closed the door and led his new friend to the sofa. If Sherlock could bring home rotting corpse heads, he could bring home a dog. He was ready for an argument, but Sherlock said nothing. For the moment, there was only a great deal of jingling and heavy breathing as Gladstone scratched at his ear, seemingly uninterested in Sherlock.

Sherlock did not get up to facilitate the introduction. He didn't even extend a hand. "You've been gambling. Won him in a bet, I gather," was all he said.

Once again, John was astonished by Sherlock's powers of deduction. Powers that could detect his vices and exactly when he fell prey to them. "Fabulous," he said. "How did you know?"

Sherlock smiled. "Quite simple. Your pension cheque arrived yesterday. You always disappear for hours the day after the cheque arrives. You return home either dejected or elated -- usually dejected -- and smelling of cigarettes, which you don't smoke. You have smudges on your fingertips from handling dirty cards and money, and your shoes are sticking on the floor, indicating you've been in a gambling hall and the beer and general filth haven't worn off your shoes during your walk home. The man who owed you money didn't have it, and he gave you his dog instead. His name is Robert Wells. Heavyset. Florid. Unkempt. How did I do?"

"Amazing!" John followed most of the details Sherlock had observed in order to come up with his proclamations. Gladstone was, after all, wearing an identification tag bearing the name of Robert Wells, and Sherlock was always remarkably attuned to the minutiae of John's appearance. "But how did you know what Mr Wells looked like?"

"Owners look like their dogs. I'd wash that thing if I were you."

Sherlock closed his eyes again as John knelt to examine Gladstone's fur. It was, indeed, a bit gray.

"He won't get into my experiments, will he?"

John stood. "If you insist on leaving half-rotten arms lying about, there's no telling."

"Hm." Sherlock sprang to his feet so quickly, both John and Gladstone started. "A test!" Sherlock announced, striding towards the kitchen. He grabbed hold of a femur, which lay on the dining table. Bringing it with him, he bent to offer it to Gladstone. "What do you say, dog? A bone?"

Gladstone glanced at the bone, then promptly fell into a heap on the floor, sighing deeply.

"I guess not," John said.

"All right, then. The dog is a go." Sherlock tossed the bone onto the floor and flopped back onto the sofa.

And that was the end of the dog discussion.

In general, Sherlock ignored Gladstone. Gladstone ignored Sherlock. John took care of walks, food, water, baths, vet, pats, and scratches. Gladstone slept on a rug beside John's bed, gallumphing up the stairs each night, seeming not to miss his former owner at all.

"He's not particularly useful," Sherlock said when they had to bring Gladstone to a crime scene. John had been out walking him when Sherlock's taxi had screeched to a halt and Sherlock had ordered him to get in. Instead of sniffing out clues, Gladstone had charmed the detectives into giving him pats.

"He's improving your relationship with Scotland Yard," John replied. "We should tell them he's your dog."

"He's _our_ dog," Sherlock said. Which was just like him.

John came home one day to silence. That was unusual. Gladstone always heard his footsteps and came to wait at the door, his tags jingling. But when John opened the door to the flat, there was no brown and white lump panting up at him.

There was, however, a dead-to-the-world Sherlock lying on the floor, his head pillowed on a snoring Gladstone. So, that's how it is, John thought. He crouched beside the two of them. Gladstone opened his eyes, snorting quietly. Sherlock slept on, his dark lashes against the pale skin below his eyes, his hand resting on one of Gladstone's paws.

"He never lets _me_ do that," John muttered.

"You have to sleep on the floor." Sherlock opened his eyes. The sharp blue of them was startling.

Something occurred to John. "I don't look like him, do I?"

Sherlock tilted his head, considering his flatmate. "You've ceased lumbering along. And I do consider you a bit brighter."

"Thanks. I think," John said.

Later that night, John couldn't persuade Gladstone to come upstairs. The dog lay at Sherlock's feet and refused to move. He arched his whiskery eyebrows, but that was all.

"What happened to loyalty?"

Sherlock poked at Gladstone with his bare foot. "He is loyal."

"Fine," John said, and grouched off to bed, leaving Gladstone to Sherlock.

As he lay in bed, it seemed awfully quiet. He'd grown accustomed to Gladstone's snoring and whuffling. After two hours of tossing and turning, he fell into a fitful sleep. A dream woke him, something unpleasant but difficult to recall. It had left his heart pounding, and his stomach felt lurchy. He got up.

The common rooms were empty, but light shone from under Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Sherlock?" John called softly.

"Come in," said a muffled voice.

John opened the door. Sherlock lay on the floor beside the bed, reading a book, head propped on Gladstone.

"There he is."

"He insisted," Sherlock said. He was dressed in a white t-shirt, boxers, and a wrinkled bathrobe.

John stared at the feathery hairs on Sherlock's legs. At his pale, graceful feet. "You have very pink toenails."

Sherlock lifted one of his feet into the air and peered at it.

Disturbed by his train of thought, John changed the subject. "I can't sleep without my dog," he said.

"He's _our_ dog."

"Sherlock," John said. "I walk him. I feed him. I pay to have his teeth cleaned. He's _my_ dog!"

"He won't move."

"Not with your head on him!"

Sherlock sat up. "Go on." He gave Gladstone a light smack.

Gladstone didn't move.

Sherlock shrugged and lay back down. "You can sleep in my bed if you don't think too loudly." He went back to his book.

Sherlock's sheets looked as if they hadn't been washed in months, but nonetheless the bed seemed oddly inviting. John circled to the other side, away from Sherlock, and sat tentatively on the mattress. It was soft. He climbed under the sheet and duvet. It was warm. Gladstone was snoring quietly. And everything smelled like Sherlock.

John fell asleep.

When he woke, it was just dawn, and he heard the comforting sound of Gladstone's breathing. He felt warm and safe. An arm was wrapped loosely around him. He shifted. When he looked under the covers, he saw a long, pale limb covered in fine, dark hairs. Very pink fingernails.

So, that's how it is, he thought. And he went back to sleep.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [快乐石头是如何进驻贝克街的 (How Gladstone Came to Live at Baker Street)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/593146) by [dogpoet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogpoet/pseuds/dogpoet), [ssshannon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssshannon/pseuds/ssshannon)




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